Even a solitary meal brings good company

Oct. 11, 2011

Written by

Jennifer Justus | The Tennessean

Sopapilla’s

1109 Davenport Blvd., Franklin 615-794-9989, www.sopapillas.netWhat to order:Try the blue corn chicken enchiladas with a fried egg on top. “That’s probably the most authentic dish that we have,” said owner Steve Dale. And while the traditional sopapillas with honey come on the house, they’re also good with meat tucked inside. When given a choice, go with the beef. It’s road-tested.

What to drink:The Cucumber Margarita arrives in a tall glass with ice and several thickly sliced hunks of cucumber. Or ask for Roland’s off-menu drink, The Key Lime, which works well as a precursor to the peppery cuisine of New Mexico. The restaurant has also upped its wine list since the bar was installed in January.

Where to sit:The patio makes for a perfect perch in fall. Or visit the bar area with its walls of red and warm tones of gray stone, black accents and modern art. A new private dining room also is available with its own sound system and mission-style table — 7 feet wide by 11 feet long — fashioned with reclaimed barn wood.

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This month I decided to go it alone.

Up until now, I’ve spent my 101 minutes at restaurants with friends because I like food shared. Discussed. Enjoyed over conversation. Its ability to connect us is one of the main reasons I write about it.

But then there’s also something special about eating alone, too. It helps me pay closer attention to the soft texture in a slice of warm bread, the hearty aroma of slow-roasted beef, the pop from a fleck of cilantro. The colors both on and off the plate shine. It’s an opportunity to (try to) be completely in the moment. To wonder about — and be grateful for — the people who planted the chile peppers, harvested them, roasted them over an open flame. It’s both a spiritual act and an indulgent one, like meditation — or a spa treatment. My friend Jaime has a favorite restaurant she likes to visit alone. She calls it church.

So on a recent Wednesday, I snuck off for Sopapilla’s in Franklin.

A cocktail and some advice

It was 4:30 p.m. when I took a seat at the copper-topped bar. It was early for the dinner crowd, so the place was mostly empty. The bartender — bearded and bald, tattooed with small hoop earrings — had the music cranked (Seal and the Kings of Leon in the mix) as he hustled to prep his station.

He stopped his side-work to get me drink. The Cucumber Margarita. His choice. I loved how the crisp cucumber in fat slices added freshness to a drink that can sometimes taste too sweet and too tart. Cucumber. Ah. Spa treatment, indeed.

He also placed in front of me a bowl of salsa (my very own bowl!) and a basket of warm chips. I later learned that Steve Dale, the restaurant’s owner, had spent months perfecting the salsa that he would take in batches on tour when he played bass with artists like Carrie Underwood and Little Big Town. The muted rusty-red color with flecks of black pepper was a salsa more layered and complex than standard Mexican restaurant fare.

Soon after my drink arrived, a couple of women who work at the salon next door popped in for a couple after-work drinks. Sopapilla’s sits at the corner of Camden Commons, a shiny newish development that mixes businesses with residential space on top. The bartender recognized the women.

“We have $5 house wines and margaritas,” he said.

Then he shot me a look.

“I’ll give you a discount on that one,” he said pointing to my speciality margarita that wasn’t part of happy hour.

“I didn’t tell her,” he explained to the ladies.

I didn’t mind, but then I heard one of them order a drink that isn’t on the menu. The Key Lime, a creamy concoction that arrived in a large martini-shaped glass. He reminded the ladies of his name again, and introduced himself to me. Roland.

Next up, I ordered my meal. Should I go Green Tamale & Chipotle Shrimp Taco or the Stuffed Sopapilla, I asked him. He didn’t hesitate.

Stuffed Sopapilla.

Chicken or beef?

Beef.

I like a man who gives direction with authority.

As I waited for my meal, a fourth guest rolled up to the bar — a middle-age man in shorts and polo with a tan, gray hair and sunglasses. He was just killing some time, I learned, by eavesdropping between verses of a Tom Petty song. He ordered a margarita and read a book off his iPhone. Meanwhile, my sopapilla arrived smothered in sauce, chock with hunks of green Hatch chili and a melty layer of cheese. Swaddled inside it was a mound of spicy, shredded beef.

Filling a void

Dale, who moved to Nashville in 1995 for music, grew up in Phoenix and Albuquerque.

“From the get-go when I got here, I felt like there wasn’t the Mexican food I was accustomed to in Phoenix and Albuquerque,” he told me after my visit. “I started cooking my own food.”

He had fallen in love with the Hatch chili while busing tables at a restaurant during high school.

“Just the heat of the chilies and rich, roast flavor,” he said.

The chilis grow in Hatch, N.M., where the soil and humidity suit them well. Dale now orders them 1,500 pounds at a time, about every three months.

In addition to his salsa experiments, Dale treated his musician colleagues to “fiestas” while on the road.

“We’d break out the Crock-Pots and slow cook meats during the day,” he said. “After the show, we’d have a big thing of margaritas … quesadillas … and tacos.”

His restaurant’s concept and menu development — about three years in the making — happened on the back of a tour bus.

“Not bad for a margarita,” Roland said to the sunglassed man.

“It does not suck,” he said. “Hits the spot. Thank you, Roland.”

Then he ordered a second one.

With hardly anything — but everything — happening around me, I didn’t remember to be grateful for my time alone until 5:06. Shame on me. But the man in sunglasses was asking Roland about his past. I just had to hear.

Roland came to Nashville from Columbus, Ohio, for music. He played in a Christian hard rock band. His father had been a musician, too.

“What’s for dessert?” I asked him.

He suggested the sopapillas again — this time without a savory stuffing and just with a drizzle of honey — which are on the house.

Dale explained later that sopapillas typically arrive mid-meal in New Mexico, “like we would have biscuits here.” And while he sees himself as a bit of an educator on authentic New Mexican cuisine, the timing of the sopapillas hasn’t resonated here. Guests would often ask the servers to take them away until after dinner so they would stay warm.

“We kinda lost that battle,” Dale said, though he’s OK with that.

I, too, would be having mine for dessert. They arrived as dreamy little pillows, soft and studded with pockets of air. With just a thin layer of crisp on the outside from the hot oil and a dribble of honey, they’ll make you want to lick your fingers.

At the end of the day

Sopapillas originated in Albuquerque hundreds of years ago. The Indians were making fried bread when the Spaniards arrived, adding their own twist.

A trio of regulars had convened at the end of the bar to drink happy-hour margaritas and talk football, and it reminded me how restaurants embody so much life as places to play, work, nourish, socialize.

When my check arrived, I learned that Roland had not discounted my drink. He just didn’t charge me for it at all.

“Thank you, Roland,” I said waving over the heads of the regulars. I sort of wanted to be a regular, too. Despite my time alone, I couldn’t help but feel the call of connectedness.